


Espresso-ly for You

by EnsignAdano



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxious Zuko (Avatar), Awkwardness, Dorks in Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Gay Panic, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Minor Mai/Ty Lee (Avatar), Mutual Pining, Oblivious, POV Alternating, Romance, Texting, Zukka Week 2021, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnsignAdano/pseuds/EnsignAdano
Summary: Zuko is a stressed-out college student just looking for a good jolt of caffeine to finish an assignment; Sokka is a barista at the Starbucks near their university. On the afternoon that their paths cross—in the form of a grande white chocolate mocha with probably far too much espresso—neither one realizes how much the other wants them.(Featuring mental math, music theory, mutual pining, and two absolute dorks in love.)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	Espresso-ly for You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Zukka Week 2021! I was originally going to post this on Day 3 (for the prompt Tea or Coffee Shop), but I missed the deadline because of schoolwork kicking my butt. But then I saw that the prompt for today (Day 5) was College AU, which this fic _also_ technically fits, so I figured I'd post it today instead!
> 
> Also, I've rarely actually been in a Starbucks and all my knowledge of normal social interaction has been ruined by the pandemic anyway, so forgive me if I get anything wrong. Thankfully, I had [this](https://www.eflclub.com/twmu/orderingatstarbucks.pdf) PDF, which walks you through how to order at Starbucks, step-by-step, to help me! (It's technically meant for ESL learners, but I think it would be helpful to lots of people.) Zuko's coffee order is based on that of Dante Basco, according to (what I believe is) [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXiGWap96I0) interview that's been commonly turned into "Zuko goes to Starbucks" memes and animatics (just search for them on YouTube, there's a lot), and [this Reddit post](https://www.reddit.com/r/starbucks/comments/4vqc2z/shots_of_espresso_and_white_mocha/) is what told me that you could put espresso in white chocolate mocha in the first place. Again, please forgive me if I've horribly misinterpreted this knowledge or anything.
> 
> Anyway, Zukka nation, I hope you enjoy!

It was amazing how one good-looking customer could turn someone’s whole day around.

Normally, Sokka didn’t hate his part-time job as a Starbucks barista; he figured there were much worse ways to pay for college. On most days, he enjoyed seeing the wide variety of people who came and went, and he loved seeing the looks of surprise and pleasure on his regulars’ faces when they realized he’d memorized their orders. He liked writing little puns on the sides of the cups of people who seemed like they’d appreciate them, scribbling down notes of encouragement for those who looked particularly beaten-down, and drawing little people, smiling suns, and even imaginary creatures like flying bison and saber-toothed moose-lions for the children who came in with their parents. The drawings were rarely more sophisticated or skillful than stick figures, but the expressions of unmitigated joy that little kids had whenever they saw them on the sides of their hot cocoa or chocolate chip cookies practically made the whole job worth it.

But today, he was just feeling done. Done with everything. He’d stayed up late last night finishing a paper that was due today, then endured a full day of difficult classes, mind-numbing lectures, and trying to avoid being singled out in seminars because the answer he would give would surely not be the least bit coherent. And on top of that, now he had to deal with a five-hour shift. All he could think about was going back to his dorm, flopping down on his bed, and taking a long and (in his opinion) well-deserved nap. The only puns he’d managed to come up with his whole shift had something to do with the words “bed” or “sleep,” when he had enough energy to come up with any at all.

He’d been passing the past half hour or so doing mental math. The pessimistic kind of mental math he only did when he was running on too little sleep and already predisposed to believe that everything in his life sucked. Number of customers who had yelled at him today: 3. Number of those customers who had demanded to see his manager: 2. Number of customers with annoyingly complicated orders that he’d had to write down: 4. Total number of ingredients across their four drinks: 23, which was entirely too many. Time left until his shift ended: 2 hours, 14 minutes. Days until he graduated college: 463. Divide that by seven days per week, times twenty hours a week, times ten dollars an hour, and the result was…clearly not enough for this shit, Sokka thought grumpily as he listened to yet another customer give a bizarre, byzantine order that included the words “light water,” “upside down,” and “steamed to exactly 137 degrees.”

But all it took was one look into the eyes of his next customer for all those thoughts to immediately fly out of his head.

The guy standing at the counter, not quite making eye contact, was slightly taller than Sokka and had hair that was longish and darkish and slightly tousled. His eyes were the most striking amber color Sokka had ever seen, although the left one was squinting slightly and surrounded by painful-looking, burned scar tissue.

He was…okay, he was  _ super _ good-looking. Like,  _ unfairly _ so. And it wasn’t until he narrowed those beautiful golden eyes in slight confusion that Sokka came to his senses and remembered to go through his standard employee script, “Hi! Welcome to Starbucks. What can I get you?” He felt his face flush and desperately hoped that he hadn’t been staring too obviously or for too long, making the whole thing awkward. Plus, it was difficult when he was trying to strike the right balance of  _ getting lost in those beautiful eyes _ and  _ not making himself seem like some insensitive asshole who couldn’t stop staring at the guy’s burn scar _ .

If the guy noticed Sokka’s staring or was put off by it, though, he didn’t say anything. “Hi, could I get a grande white chocolate mocha? With a few shots of espresso?”

“Sure,” Sokka said. “Can I get your name?”

“Zuko.” The guy’s voice was low and a little raspy and— _ god dammit _ —it only served to make him even more attractive. Like, seriously, he could read the  _ phone book _ aloud and Sokka would be hanging on to every last digit.

As Sokka entered his order into the system, he decided to hazard some light conversation. “So, uh, Zuko, I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. You new?” He raised one eyebrow in an attempt to be suave, which probably totally failed.

“I mean, no, I just don’t come here very often…” Zuko looked down at the ground a little uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Usually when I need something to drink, I make some tea at home, but I have a huge assignment for my music theory class due tomorrow so I needed something with a ton of caffeine. That also, y’know, tastes good.”

Sokka nodded, trying to smile as coolly and naturally as possible. “I know the feeling.”

After Zuko paid for his drink, Sokka turned to the espresso machine and noticed with surprise that, despite his attempts to be casual and charming, his hands were shaking. Quite a bit, in fact. Did Zuko really have  _ that _ much of an effect on him? He knew he was good-looking, but…

Whatever. It was nothing. In fact, it was probably just from lack of sleep. Yeah. Hand tremors from sleep deprivation. That was a real thing, right? (He’d have to ask Katara; she was the pre-med student.)

But for now, he just tried to focus on making Zuko’s drink as best he could and handing it to him with the most winning smile he could muster. “Here you are, sir.  _ Espresso-ly  _ for you!”

(That pun was inspired, if he did say so himself.)

“Thanks,” said Zuko, taking the cup but not leaving the counter. “Um, I was actually kinda planning to spend the day in here working, so would it be okay if I just…just grabbed a…” He gestured vaguely to the tables and chairs near the back corner of the store.

“Sure, no problem!” said Sokka. “The WiFi is free here, so stay as long as you want. I can get you refills, too, if you’d like.”

Zuko looked up at him, for the first time allowing those stunning golden eyes to fully make contact with Sokka’s. Also for the first time, the hint of a smile crossed his face—not very much, but enough to cause the slightest flutter in Sokka’s heart. “Thank you.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving Sokka’s mind reeling.

For a while after that, he felt noticeably more awake—as if  _ he’d _ been the one with a jolt of caffeine to his system—and noticeably more optimistic. His eyes kept darting over to the black-haired boy in the corner, sitting at the small table with textbooks and a laptop and a steely expression of concentration on his beautiful, scarred face.

He still didn’t know who this new guy—well, new to this Starbucks—was. He didn’t know why he avoided eye contact so much, or where he got his scar, or what kind of tea he usually drank and why he’d forgone it for Starbucks on this particular occasion. And he definitely didn’t know why his looks and his voice and his smile—god dammit, his  _ smile _ —could make Sokka’s hands shake and his heart palpitate, almost like he was in love. (Which, of course, would be ridiculous: as previously established, he barely even  _ knew _ the guy. Or so he told himself. This wasn’t a crush. This was nothing. Just the delusions of an addled, sleep-deprived mind.)

But he did know one thing: he meant it when he said Zuko could stay for as long as he liked.

* * *

There was no way Zuko was going to be able to focus on music theory now. He tried. He made a valiant, Herculean effort. But no matter how much time he spent staring at the chord diagrams in his textbook, his mind kept drifting back to that barista— _ Sokka _ , apparently, according to his name tag. Zuko couldn’t let go of that name; he found himself subconsciously turning it over and over in his mind. And the shots of espresso in his mocha latte, instead of giving him superhuman stamina and focus on his assignment, instead seemed to be speeding up the endless thoughts about Sokka that were circling in his head, making his mind race faster and faster and faster.

He kept thinking about Sokka’s bright, friendly blue eyes that stood out so much against his medium-dark skin. He constantly dwelled on the way the sides of his head were shaved and his remaining brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail that just barely grazed the nape of his neck. He even obsessed over his handwriting, or at least what little of it he could see on the coffee cup. Just the four letters of Zuko’s name, not exactly an accurate representative sample—but it showed him that Sokka wrote his Z’s with a little dash through the middle, just like Zuko did. And that fact alone was enough to keep his mind fixated on Sokka for far too long than it had any right to.

(Right. Because making your Zs the same nerdy way was a  _ totally _ valid reason for a crush.)

Wait,  _ was _ this a crush?

(Insert gay panic here.)

Even if Zuko accepted the premise that it was, in fact, a crush, what on earth was he supposed to do about it? It wasn’t like he could just casually work that into a conversation— _ Another white chocolate mocha, please, and by the way I think you’re incredibly attractive and would be inhumanly happy if you were to go on a date with me. _ No. That would never work, and would probably only make Sokka freak out and run away; Zuko felt his face burn just thinking about it.

Besides, Sokka was probably straight. Or taken. Or both. And even if he wasn’t, there was no way he liked Zuko back. He hadn’t given any indication one way or the other—all his actions were pretty much just standard corporate friendliness, Zuko thought. As much as he wanted to think that the conversation starters and amiable tone were meant especially for him—as much as he kept imagining it, over and over; as much as he kept picturing it blossoming into something more—he knew it was probably what Sokka did for all his customers. He was probably just following a script that was written down in an employee handbook somewhere. In fact, when Zuko darted a glance at the counter, there Sokka was, cheerfully chatting away with a woman and her baby. (Not that he saw them for very long, since the minute his eyes fell on Sokka he instantly glanced away and blushed—an involuntary and highly embarrassing reaction to a guy who, as he’d previously established, was  _ way _ out of his league.)

He had to face facts: there was no way a guy like Sokka would ever really want anything to do with a guy like him. A guy to whom  _ multiple _ people (many of them people he’d dated) had complained that he had trouble expressing his emotions. A philosophy major and music minor who, on a Friday night, preferred nerding out over Camus or chord progressions to actually going out. A twenty-two-year-old college student whose bookshelves still contained, interspersed between his textbooks, worn copies of the picture books his mom used to read to him and his sister, and who still sometimes liked to reread them and become lost in the adventures of princesses and warriors and turtleducks. (The latter of which was a combination between a turtle and a duck that Zuko maintained was the cutest and best fantasy animal ever created, and no, he would not be accepting constructive criticism at this time.) Who would ever want to go out with a guy like that? As Zuko’s very short, very embarrassing romantic history could tell you, not many people. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sokka ran away screaming at the very prospect of it.

If he just gave up on this ridiculous, unattainable fantasy crush, he knew it would save him a lot of pain in the long run. Plus, it would leave him free to finally do his stupid music theory assignment without getting distracted by sky-blue eyes and witty banter and Z’s with dashes through them.

He wished he could ask Mai for advice on how to stop pining for someone. After all, she was pretty much the Queen of Repressing Emotions. And it seemed to work out fine for her—she’d even gotten herself a girlfriend whom she’d been dating for two years, their mutual childhood friend Ty Lee (AKA the most sunshiney, heart-on-her-sleeve person Zuko had ever known). Plus, Mai already knew about all of Zuko’s awkward romantic tendencies from the brief period in high school when they dated each _other_ , before both of them realized they were gay. But Zuko refrained from sending her a message on his iMac, because she was probably either in one of her evening classes or on a date night with Ty Lee. He didn’t want to bother her with his stupid not-even-romantic drama, and even if he did, she probably wouldn’t answer anyway. He could handle this himself.

Part decisive, part resigned, Zuko reached for his cup of coffee to take a sip—and, to his surprise, found that it was empty. Okay. He revised his list of things to do: get some more coffee, get over his crush, and  _ then _ finish his music theory assignment.

He made his way over to the counter, where he tried very hard  _ not _ to make eye contact,  _ not _ to stare, not to blush. When he got there, Sokka spotted him immediately, grinned, and said, “Hey, you’re back! Another grande white chocolate mocha?”

Okay, this was already hard. Sokka had remembered his order after  _ one time _ . He’d  _ memorized _ it. That was…well, it was…

No. He wasn’t going to think Sokka was flirting when he really wasn’t. He wasn’t going to be led on by his own stupid, false hope. He could do this.

“I’m not putting any espresso in this one, though,” Sokka continued. “Is that okay with you? You’ve already had, like, four shots, so I was kinda worried…”

“No, that’s fine,” Zuko said. So Sokka didn’t want a murder on his conscience. Fair.

“I’m like a bartender,” Sokka said, laughing. “I’m cutting you off.” He pretended to twirl a long mustache and spoke in an affected, quasi-macho voice—“ _ Young man, I think you’ve had enough for tonight! _ ”

And that’s when Zuko’s short-lived mission to stop pining for his barista officially failed. Horribly. Crashed and burned. He wanted to laugh—Sokka’s wacky sense of humor was so bad that it became good, and there was something endearing about its earnestness—but instead, his heart began pounding, and he could barely stammer out a “yeah.”

Sokka frowned and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Tough crowd.”

Zuko’s face immediately flushed. “Oh, uh, no, no, I didn’t mean to, like…”

“It’s okay,” said Sokka. “Social interaction’s hard sometimes. I get it.”

_ Please marry me. _ The thought arrived in Zuko’s head, unbidden and entirely contrary to his goal of  _ not _ having feelings.

He forced himself to look up and stop blushing—which was harder than it seemed—but by that time, Sokka had already turned away from the counter. As Zuko watched, he took the full, newly-prepared coffee cup and scribbled Zuko’s name on it, drawing the Z with a flourish and adding a dash in just the way that made Zuko’s heart melt. But then he squinted in concentration and began drawing something else with smaller strokes of his Sharpie. Zuko stared at him for an uncomfortably long time as he stopped and then started drawing again, sometimes sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. What could he be drawing that was taking him so long? Zuko’s heart was palpitating as his mind immediately conjured up the worst-case scenario—maybe Sokka was writing something like,  _ I’ve just been feigning friendliness all this time, I actually hate you and you suck, please leave this Starbucks and never return _ in tiny lettering. Ridiculous and improbable, Zuko knew, but try telling that to his anxious, racing mind.

But Sokka handed the cup to Zuko with a smile, and when Zuko peered at it, he saw that Sokka had actually written the words, “Good luck with your assignment! I know you’ll ROCK it!” Next to that, he’d drawn what looked like a tiny electric guitar with jagged lines shooting out of it from all sides, and the words were surrounded by little doodles of music notes.

The thing about pining was that you couldn’t just stop whenever you felt like it. You couldn’t just tell yourself that someone’s friendly smile, and their eyes that were icy blue yet somehow full of warmth, and their  _ personalized drawing they made just for you _ —granted, not a very good one, but  _ still _ —weren’t gonna affect you anymore, and then, just like that, not have them affect you anymore. That wasn’t how it worked.

Zuko, unfortunately, was learning this the hard way.

* * *

Number of times so far that Sokka had glanced at Zuko during his shift: Infinity. (Or at least that’s what it felt like.) Number of times Zuko had glanced at Sokka: Unclear. (More data needed.) Number of vaguely music-related puns to write on Zuko’s next coffee cup that Sokka had brainstormed: 32. Percentage of those puns that were actually good: 0%.

Preferred ratio of shots of espresso to pumps of white mocha: 4 to 3. Number of strings an electric guitar had…crap, Sokka was drawing a blank. Four, maybe. Or 6? He ultimately just settled for drawing a vague mess of lines, hoping they’d somehow coalesce into something recognizable as a guitar. Which, given how much his hands were shaking as he drew it, would be a miracle.

Zuko’s lips moved slightly as he murmured the words written on the coffee cup to himself. When he was done, he looked up, his eyes wide and a little disbelieving. “You…wrote this for me? Well, I mean, duh, of course you did, I just saw you…” He blushed even more and looked down, his mop of long hair flopping over his face. The poor guy was one of the shyest people Sokka had ever met. (And on a completely unrelated note, his furiously flushed face had no right to be as attractive as it was.)

“Yeah,” Sokka said in response. “I just wanted to give you a bit of encouragement for the music assignment thing you’re doing. Y’know, a little pick-me-up.”

Which was partially true. Sokka couldn’t deny that he had an ulterior motive—he desperately wanted Zuko to notice him, to like him. (And apparently the best way to make that happen was by drawing stupid puns on the side of his coffee cups.) But he also genuinely wanted to make Zuko happy. The poor guy seemed so stressed and exhausted—the bags under his eyes practically had bags of their own—and it was clear from his scar that he’d been through some shit. So if Sokka’s dumb puns and drawings could brighten his day just a little, it would be worth it. (And the prospect of finally seeing a smile on that beautiful face was a welcome side benefit.)

“How did you know my assignment was music-related?” asked Zuko.

“I saw the title of your textbook. Something about tonal harmony.” Sokka’s brows creased in concern. “That  _ does _ mean music, right? Or do I have it totally wrong?” Then an even worse thought occurred to him. “I promise I wasn’t, like, spying on you or anything, the letters on the cover are just really big…” Great. Now Zuko probably thought he was some kind of weirdo.

But if that was really what Zuko was thinking, he didn’t show it. “Well, your encouragement is very kind. Thank you.” He smiled slightly, shyly, and it felt like fireworks going off in Sokka’s heart.

He just hoped Zuko understood that the gesture meant a lot more than just simple kindness.

“So you’re a music major?” he asked, trying to ever-so-casually lean against the counter. Since nobody else was in line at that precise instant, he figured he could spare a bit of time for conversation.

“Music minor,” Zuko corrected. “Philosophy major.”

“Do you play any instruments?”

“I used to play the violin a lot. Like, in competitions and recitals. I was really good.” Zuko looked away evasively. “Now I mostly focus on theory and history.”

_ He plays violin. _ Or  _ played _ , at least. Sokka’s mind immediately began brainstorming more music puns, specifically  _ classical _ music puns, an attempt mostly hindered by the fact that he, an engineering student, didn’t know the first thing about classical music. Unless you counted the background music in the ancient  _ Tom & Jerry _ reruns he used to watch, and Sokka was pretty sure Zuko wouldn’t.

He was about to say something witty regarding music when a customer walked up to the counter—from the looks of her, one of those Karens who’d kick up one hell of a fuss and yell to the manager if Sokka was just one second late serving her. Sokka gave a little start at the sight of her, then turned to Zuko and hastily said, “Crap, I’ve gotta take this. But good luck on your assignment, okay? And I’m here till the store closes, if you need another little pick-me-up or anything.”

He flashed his most dazzling smile—or at least tried to; it probably looked slightly manic instead—and Zuko smiled a little in response. “Thanks. See you.”

After Zuko had gone back to his table and Sokka was finished dealing with the customer, he slumped down behind the counter and silently, unceasingly groaned. It was now time for him to internally die over the fact that his idea of flirting apparently involved  _ adopting a fake mustache and a ridiculous, macho accent. _ What the hell was he thinking? First the stupid puns, and now this—if Zuko didn’t already think he was the cringiest person on the planet, well, then somehow there was no hope for  _ either _ of them.

To be fair, of course, Zuko been pretty nice about it; he hadn’t shown any signs of disgust or outright said that Zuko was the cringiest person on the planet. (Honestly, he hadn’t said much of anything, besides the ridiculously tantalizing facts about his being a music minor and ex-violinist.) But that didn’t do anything to stop Sokka’s embarrassment.

All he wanted was to clue Zuko in on the fact that he liked him. When did that become so goddamn hard?

* * *

Zuko’s textbook lay entirely forgotten as he fired off a panicked message to Mai on his iMac. He knew what he’d decided before about not bothering her, but this was serious. This was an emergency.

“I’m so gay,” he typed. “Help.”

If anyone could help him shove aside and get over this ridiculous crush, it was her.

A minute later, a response came from Mai: “?” Zuko knew that this wasn’t a dismissal or an expression of confusion, but an invitation to share more information, the way Mai used it. He’d gotten pretty good at interpreting her short, clipped texts over the years.

His fingers were poised above the keyboard, about to type a reply, when he noticed a  _ second _ text come in from a different sender: Ty Lee. “OMG Zuko!!!” it read. “I feel like we haven’t talked in forever!! How are you?” This was followed by three sparkly heart emoji.

Zuko groaned internally. He must have accidentally sent the message to the group chat he had with Mai and Ty Lee, instead of just Mai, without realizing it. And he loved Ty Lee—he really did—but he had the feeling she wasn’t going to be helpful in a discussion about how to repress emotions and avoid heartbreak.

Still, it wasn’t like he could just slight Ty Lee by cutting off the conversation right there, unannounced, and continuing it in a private message with Mai. That would make him an asshole. So he sighed and explained the whole story to both of them as succinctly as he could in a series of rapid-fire texts. His fingers made quick but muted clicking sounds on the keyboard cover of his laptop as he typed.

When he was finished, it took a second for either of them to reply. Then Ty Lee sent the words “Zuko @ Sokka rn,” followed by a gif of Squidward Tentacles looking dismayed and going,  _ Oh no, he’s hot! _

“stop sending spongebob gifs,” typed Mai, to which Ty Lee responded with a gif from another episode, of the Magic Conch Shell (Zuko hated that he knew that) going,  _ No _ .

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now anyway, Mai?” Ty Lee continued.

“technically yes,” wrote Mai. “but the lecture is really boring and the professor can’t see me.”

“That first gif wasn’t wrong, Ty Lee,” Zuko typed, smiling despite himself.

“I don’t know what you’re so worried about anyway,” said Ty Lee. “He obviously likes you too”—this was followed by an emoji of a smiling face surrounded by hearts.

Zuko’s thoughts skittered to a stop, like a record scratching.

No.  _ No _ . That obviously wasn’t true; Ty Lee had to be wrong. There was no way Sokka liked him.

Right?

“zuko said he didn’t, ty lee,” wrote Mai. “we’ve been over this.”

“Well I think Zuko’s wrong,” responded Ty Lee. “Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? Like what you do in your law school classes?”

“i mean that’s not exactly what we do but,” came the response from Mai.

The next few messages from Ty Lee came in a rapid series. “He kept you at the counter to have a special long conversation with you…”

“Pretty sure making friendly conversation with customers is in the Starbucks handbook somewhere,” Zuko quickly responded before her next message could come in.

“He made silly jokes and puns for you—”

“He’s the joke-making type.”

“He showed concern for you when he stopped you from drinking more espresso—”

“So he doesn’t want a dead guy on his conscience.”

“no one does,” put in Mai, and Zuko wasn’t sure whom she was agreeing with.

“He made you a PERSONALIZED DRAWING,” typed Ty Lee ever more adamantly.

“That doesn’t make me special,” insisted Zuko. “He does that for lots of people.”

“evidence?” asked Mai. (An annoying habit she’d picked up ever since starting her first year of law school.)

This time, Zuko was prepared. “There is a discarded coffee cup with a crappily drawn dinosaur on it right in front of me as we speak.” Which was the truth, and the cup also bore the name  _ Hinata _ in Sokka’s messy scrawl.

“He memorized your order—“ continued Ty Lee.

“Lots of baristas memorize their customers’ orders.”

“After one time?” she retorted.

“Maybe he just has a great memory.”

At this, Ty Lee sent three laughing emojis, followed by the message “Denial, it’s not just a river in Egypt!!”

Zuko fumed, feeling his face flush with anger. He was  _ not _ in denial! Ty Lee was just—

“sorry zuko but in the face of such overwhelming evidence i’ve got to side with ty lee,” said Mai. “this boy is clearly very very into you and has been very obviously flirting with you this whole time. and for some reason you’re so convinced no one can like you that you’ve been giving him the cold shoulder all this time.”

Zuko could already feel his breaths coming faster, heavier. “You’re wrong,” he typed, although with less conviction.

“go on,” said Mai. “order another coffee from him and look for those signs of crush-dom we discussed. they’ll all be there. i guarantee it.”

“Please?” added Ty Lee. “Just humor us?” And this was followed by one of those infuriating pleading-puppy-eyes emoji.

Zuko huffed and sent out a “FINE,” in all-caps, then roughly pushed away from the table and slammed his laptop shut.

He stalked over to the counter, crushing his empty cup in his hand. The sky through the glass doors of the coffee shop was dark. Starbucks was probably going to close soon, maybe in an hour or less, and Zuko might never see Sokka again. So what did it matter if he liked him or was liked back, anyway? What did any of it matter?

When Sokka looked up and saw him, his face lit up. “Zuko! Another white chocolate mocha? Or do you want to switch to tea? I know you said earlier that you usually make tea at home, but Starbucks has some pretty kickass brews you can try if you’d like…”

Unbidden, a thought entered Zuko’s mind:  _ He memorized your order _ , in Ty Lee’s voice, followed by a  _ BING!  _ like an item being checked off a list. Zuko told that part of his mind to shut up.

Sokka’s expression changed to one of concern. “Hey, you all right? You seem kind of tense.”

“I’m fine,” said Zuko, forcing himself to calm down and take deep breaths. “And I’ll just have another mocha. Maybe a tall one this time.” (Stupid Starbucks, calling their small size _tall_. Although at this point, Zuko was just so pissed off at the world in general that everything, to him, was stupid.)

“Got it. One tall white chocolate mocha coming up. And maybe I should make this one decaf—you probably need the relaxation.” Sokka’s hand hesitated over the register. “That okay with you? Or should I make it full-caf?”

Again a voice, Mai’s this time:  _ He’s showing concern for your welfare.  _ And again, a self-satisfied  _ BING! _

“Decaf is fine,” Zuko managed.

Sokka punched his order in as he said, “Your music theory assignment stressing you out?”

“Yeah,” Zuko said shortly. It was easier than telling the truth.

“Well, you know what I always say: If it ain’t  _ Baroque _ , don’t fix it!” Sokka grinned widely and made double finger guns at Zuko.

And even though he knew the joke was stupid—like,  _ really _ stupid—Zuko wanted to laugh, or at least chuckle. He wanted to. But everything in his head was drowned out by Ty Lee’s voice:  _ He makes silly jokes and puns for you… _ And there was another item checked off this ridiculous, practically nonexistent list. Another infuriating  _ BING. _

Sokka frowned at Zuko’s lack of response. “Oh, come on! That was a  _ quality _ pun.”

“Sorry,” Zuko managed.

“It’s okay!” Sokka held his hands up. “You’re stressed, communication is hard, I won’t judge.” But then he wrinkled his eyebrows in a mock-offended look. “But I am curious about the whole tea thing. You did say you drink it—so what, you don’t think our teas are good enough for you?”

“N-no, your teas are fine…” Zuko awkwardly put a hand to the back of his neck, his heart pounding and only making his tumultuous feelings even worse. “But I like to make it my own way. The way my uncle taught me.”

Sokka raised an eyebrow. “A mysterious uncle whose tea trounces ours? Tell me more.”

Zuko was grateful for the distraction. Just thinking about Uncle Iroh’s calming, soothing presence steadied his breathing and loosened his shoulders a bit. “He’s amazing. After my dad kicked me out—” his hand unconsciously wen to his scar, and he could see Sokka’s eyes widening in realization before he winced— “my uncle basically raised me. I was going through a lot of stuff back then, and he helped me through all of it. He was there for me when no one else was. And—and he was  _ obsessed _ with tea. Well, still is. He makes the best jasmine tea you’ve ever tasted. He’d probably have a coronary if he found out I was drinking coffee now.”

He laughed a little, and Sokka did too, leaning against the counter casually. “So, what’s the secret to his amazing tea, then?”

“He always says the secret ingredient is love. I thought that was just bullshit until he taught me to make it myself. I wasn’t very good at it at first, and I still can’t make it like he does. But I try.”

“Well, from what you’ve told me, I’m sure he’d be proud of you no matter what.” Sokka grinned. “And you’re gonna have to make me a cup of this tea sometime.”

Zuko’s heart felt light, surprisingly so given his near-meltdown earlier. The conversation about his uncle and the memories it brought up had helped relax and ground him, and he wasn’t even feeling that embarrassed about his rambling.

That is, until Mai’s voice entered his head again, entirely uninvited:  _ He kept you at the counter to have a special long conversation with you… _ accompanied by another  _ BING. _

“And speaking of cups…” Sokka said, holding up a finger. He grabbed the coffee cup and wrote Zuko’s name on it with a flourish—complete with the little dash through the middle of the Z that Zuko loved so much. But like last time, he didn’t stop there. His tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth and his Sharpie shook just a little as he wrote, or drew, or both, on the side of the cup.

Finally, he handed it to Zuko, and it was all Zuko could do not to drop it in shock. In a drawing much more detailed (but not much better in quality) than the little dinosaur he’d done on Hinata’s discarded cup, Sokka had drawn a tiny little creature that looked like a cross between a turtle and a duckling. The side of its face was scarred, just like Zuko’s, except Sokka somehow managed to make it look adorable. And in front of it was a steaming cup of tea.

“You drew me,” Zuko said faintly. “As a turtleduck.”

“I’m sorry, was that too weird?” Sokka said, suddenly looking kind of nervous and evasive. “They’re from a book I used to read a lot as a kid, and you just kinda reminded me of—“

“I had that book too,” said Zuko. “My mom used to read it to my sister and me all the time. When we were really little.”

Sokka smiled a bit. “So it’s not that weird?”

And Zuko could barely respond. Because in his mind he was hearing Ty Lee’s voice— _ He made you a PERSONALIZED DRAWING _ —and Mai’s smug drawl— _ Told you so _ —and Sokka’s eyes and Sokka’s smile and Sokka Sokka Sokka, and the shock of the realization drowning everything else out.

All five criteria.

Zuko stumbled over a thank-you to Sokka, then, somehow, made his way back to his chair with his personalized white chocolate mocha in hand and sent a message to Mai and Ty Lee.

“You were right.”

* * *

Number of times that Sokka and Katara had read the book with the turtleducks when they were little kids (he didn’t even remember its title anymore; it was just “the book with the turtleducks”): Countless. Number of pages in his childhood notebooks that he had thereafter filled with other funny animal combinations and fusions: at least 92, and possibly more. Number of cups Sokka wasted by practicing his drawing of Zuko as a turtleduck on them: 6. Amount of money he’d lost the company by drawing on six different cups: probably either some exorbitantly high or exorbitantly low number that, one way or the other, would send Katara into a twenty-minute rant about inflation and capitalism.

Not that any of those numbers mattered anymore.

He was practically kicking himself in frustration. He should have been direct from the start—just been like, “Hey, you’re really attractive and I like you a lot” and scribbled his number onto a cup, instead of playing these weird-ass head games that seemed like such a good idea at the time. Zuko had said his whole turtleduck-drawing stunt wasn’t weird, but the panicky look he had gotten in his eye and the way he’d practically  _ run _ back to his table, where he was now frantically tap-tappity-tapping away at his laptop, betrayed him.

And the more Sokka thought about it, the angrier he got. He got that social interaction was hard, and that Zuko was shy—he  _ got _ that—but if Zuko was put off by Sokka, did he really have to be that blatant about it? Did he really have to panic and run away with barely so much as a good-bye? Like, great, thanks for making him feel like crap for the rest of his shift. (Of which, thankfully, there wasn’t much left. Only about twenty-two minutes and forty-six seconds…forty-five…forty-four. Not that he was counting.)

But it wasn’t like any of that mattered anymore. Now this guy, this  _ really goddamn hot _ guy, with his mysterious amber eyes and jet-black hair—this apparent music theory nerd and tea aficionado, whose whole face lit up when he talked about his uncle and whose smiles, on the rare occasion they were deployed, were practically enough to send Sokka up to a higher plane of existence—was probably never gonna talk to him again. Hell, Sokka would be lucky if Zuko ever set foot in this Starbucks again.

And that, put simply, blew.

Eighteen minutes and fifty-two seconds until his shift ended and he could go home and complain to Katara or Toph about his crappy day (complete, of course, with  _ lots _ of detailed description of the hot guy that he’d now lost pretty much forever). That was…only a little over a thousand seconds. He could make it.

Eighteen minutes and fifty-one seconds. Fifty. Forty-nine…

And then Zuko was in front of him, his breathing heavy, his hair more tousled than usual, his amber eyes wide and wild, and Sokka’s brain desperately fought to strike the right balance between “still angry” and “holy hell, he’s even hotter than usual.”

“Hey,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. “What can I get you?”

“Hey,” Zuko said. His laptop was under one arm, and with his free hand he pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Listen…I’m sorry about earlier. I was feeling…well, a lot of emotions and I kinda panicked—” ( _ yeah, no shit, _ Sokka thinks)—“because…because…” He looked almost physically pained. He took a deep, labored breath and forced the rest of his sentence out in one big rush. “Because I’m in love with you.”

Sokka’s thoughts screeched to a halt.

He was what? Zuko was  _ what? _

“I’m in love with you!” Zuko repeated, an almost crazed kind of desperation on his face. “And I tried to, like, deny it, or at least kind of shove down my feelings, because I was like, there’s no way you could ever like me back, right? But I was talking to my friends and then I talked to you again and it all kind of hit me at once, and…” He sighs, appearing to deflate. “Listen, I’m sorry if I freaked you out, and I’ll leave you alone if you want, I promise. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything. Just tell me and I’ll never set foot in this Starbucks again. But I just had to get it out there. You’re really funny and nice and—” he throws his hands up into the air in exasperation— “let’s face it, attractive…and I’m in love with you.”

For a second, Sokka said nothing, processing all of this. The two of them stood there for a bit in unbearable silence.

Finally, he blurted out the first thing he can think of: “ _ I’m _ in love with  _ you! _ ”

Oh, god dammit.  _ That _ was his super-suave, chill opener? He felt like smacking his forehead.

Zuko blinked. “You are? I…I mean, I know you’ve been dropping hints, or at least I do now after my friends practically had to smack me over the head with it…” His face turned red and he scratched the back of his neck, a habit Sokka couldn’t help but find ridiculously endearing. Especially now. “But…you are?”

“Yes!” Sokka responded. “And I’m sorry, I was trying to be subtle about it—this whole  _ flirting _ thing—but maybe I should have been more upfront. I don’t know. But I’m really sorry for freaking you out, in any case.” He put his face in his hands. “God, we’re disasters.”

“Well, at least  _ that _ we can agree on,” Zuko said, the edge of a smile playing at his lips and setting Sokka’s heart aflutter all over again. And he let it, because  _ Zuko liked him _ . He now knew it; it was incontrovertible. He’d liked him this whole time, stupid puns and turtleducks and all…

“What do you say we start over?” said Zuko. He stepped back from the counter and waved, now full-on grinning. “Hello. Zuko here.”

Sokka could feel himself smiling as he responded, “Hi, welcome to Starbucks. I’m Sokka. What can I get you?”

“If it’s not too close to closing time or anything,” said Zuko, “I’d like one of your very best teas. It probably won’t be like Uncle’s, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

“Sure,” Sokka said. “That’ll be $2.25…” He could already feel his cheeks burning; he couldn’t believe he was doing this. He couldn’t believe this was really happening. “And a date with me.”

Zuko looked shocked for a second, but then blinked it away and smiled shyly. “I’m free tomorrow night…”

“Great!” Sokka said. “So am I. We should go out and…do some sort of activity together.” And before he could think better of it, he grabbed the cup and scribbled Zuko’s name on it—complete with his customary dashed Z—and underneath, he wrote down his number. And, because he couldn’t resist, a tiny, badly-drawn turtleduck with a little heart right next to its beak. He was pleasantly surprised to find that his hands stayed steady and confident through the whole thing—the lines on his drawing weren’t shaky at all.

Zuko blushed profusely upon seeing the cup, which, of course, made Sokka’s heart palpitate. “Thank you for the excellent service,” he said. “I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip.”

Sokka laughed. “See you tomorrow, Zuko.”

Zuko smiled, his eyes flicking down to the ground. “Bye, Sokka.”

And after Starbucks had closed that night, when Sokka was clearing out the tip jar and saw, between the coins and bills, a small index card with Zuko’s name and number written on it in tiny, blocky handwriting—he couldn’t help but smile himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! My tumblr is bohemian-rhapsody-in-blue, in case any of you want to chat or just hear me screaming into the void in the tags of reblogs about how much I love ATLA!


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